


You Keep My Secrets Hope To Die, Promises Swear Them To The Sky

by whovianmuse



Series: Doctor Who [25]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-02 06:57:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19193983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whovianmuse/pseuds/whovianmuse
Summary: A Fobwatched Time Lord Amy Pond AUThe Doctor lies along the edge of the swimming pool at the heart of the TARDIS library, tucked in between a never-ending maze of mahogany coffee tables wrecked with watermark halos left by long-forgotten cups of cold tea, and bookshelves lined with dusty old paperbacks bearing spiderwebbed spines, the crown of his head kissing the fiery curls of Amelia's hair as she mirrors his pose on the opposite side, fingertips absentmindedly skimming the surface of the water as she captivates him with tales of her wildest dreams.





	You Keep My Secrets Hope To Die, Promises Swear Them To The Sky

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** This is a work of fan fiction inspired by _Doctor Who_. Respective concepts, characters, and settings from the original source content belong to their creator(s). No copyright infringement is intended. The title of this story was inspired by the song _Young Blood (Renholdër Remix)_ by The Naked And Famous. ([Which I first heard and fell in love with because of this gorgeous Eleven x Amy fanvid.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZHYcXljQU38)) There are references to elements from _Star Wars_ and lyrics from the song _Cosmic Love_ by Florence And The Machine throughout this story, as well.  
>   
>  **Author's Note:** I have literally been meaning to write this fic since 2010. I fell in love with this theory and it became my headcanon for the longest time, until we finally found out River Song's true identity and her connection to Amy Pond. But maybe, in an alternate universe, it went a little something like this...

It's all the little details he's come to know about Amelia Pond that don't quite add up. There are certain things, big important things, that she just can't seem to remember, massive gaps in her memory where her family and childhood should have been. She must have had parents at one point in time, the Doctor reasons, but she just can't seem to remember anything about them. She had an aunt the first time he ever met her, but somewhere along the line, some time in between the fourteen year gap when the Doctor had promised her he'd be _right back_ after a quick pop to the moon, it seems Aunt Sharon had disappeared into oblivion, too. 

But it's not just about all the things that are _missing_. Quite the contrary, it's the things Amy _can_ remember that trouble the Doctor far more. By now, he's developed a semi-permanent frown and a frustrated crease in his forehead from all the time he's spent meticulously analyzing all the things Amy Pond says or does or remembers that any normal human being simply shouldn't be able to. 

It just doesn't make any _sense_. All the times he's taken her to a brand new planet, expecting her to be awed and bombard him with a never-ending barrage of queries and curiosities, but instead, she strolls around the landscape like she's already mapped it, holding her arm out across his chest, as if on instinct, to stop him from walking into dangerous territory or across poisonous plant life, greeting the locals with an intrinsic knowledge of their intricate customs. Just when he thinks he's got her all figured out, she does something seemingly impossible, and it only serves to baffle him further.

 

**• • •**

 

The Doctor lies along the edge of the swimming pool at the heart of the TARDIS library, tucked in between a never-ending maze of mahogany coffee tables wrecked with watermark halos left by long-forgotten cups of cold tea, and bookshelves lined with dusty old paperbacks bearing spiderwebbed spines, the crown of his head kissing the fiery curls of Amelia's hair as she mirrors his pose on the opposite side, fingertips absentmindedly skimming the surface of the water as she captivates him with tales of her wildest dreams.

It's an unspoken tradition for the pair of them by now. Early on, Amelia developed a habit of wandering off to explore the library late at night whenever she couldn't sleep. After so many sleepless nights and panic-induced sprints to locate the whereabouts of his curious new companion, the Doctor has come to trust that he can always find her here, curled up on the coziest cushions of his plushiest armchairs with her nose buried deep in a book, or else lying on her back along the white and silver flecked marble floor, staring up into the vast expanse of glittering stars and swirling galaxies through the simulated skylight, always ready to regale him with a never-ending supply of marvelous made-up stories far more fascinating than any of the faerie tales and epics that comprise his collection.

The Doctor watches with spellbound awe as the ever-changing lights shine down from overhead, dancing across the surface of the water in a pastel waltz, igniting Amelia's alabaster skin in an ethereal, otherworldly glow, and listens with rapt attention as she tells him about all of the strange and wonderful dreams she's been having for as long as she can remember, of faces she's almost certain she's never met, and places she could swear she's never been to. 

She tells him about a world where the sky is an ocean, and the ground is an endless sea of clouds. Enchants him with tales of a world where music is a tangible, visible thing that she can reach out and touch, each note swathed in its own vibrant shade. She conjures up the image of a vast, verdant forest realm, home to thousands of towering trees, each one depicting a scene from the planet's personal history, a detailed record of everything that's ever happened, or ever will. These illustrations are not carved, creature-made defacements, mind you, that's just how they grow. Each and every memory breathes life into these magnificent, oak matured giants. And the _dead_ trees…the dead trees are the most interesting and heartbreaking of them all. 

She tells him about a world with a secret underground cave, its ceiling comprised of dangerously glinting dagger-pointed stalactite crystals in shades of turquoise and viridian, and walls that mimic quicksand. But as she sinks into its sandy depths, she does not lose sight nor a single breath. Instead, she's transported into a vast terrain of open ocean, and she can breathe underwater as easily as she breathes air, gifting her with hours of endless adventure, exploring vibrant coral reefs and depths as dark as midnight, home to all manner of unearthly sea creatures and magic-wielding merfolk.

But the dream she has most often, she recalls with a certain wistful delight, is the one about a landscape with a maze-like meadow, filled with slender blades of dew-soaked grass that stretch upward toward the heavens, with flowers in every color you could ever imagine, lit up in a bioluminescent glow under the cover of nightfall as fireflies dance through the surrounding forests to a symphony of cricket chirrups and birdsong, with a moon that shines citrine and silver after twilight, and a sun that envelopes her in its radiant warmth but never burns her delicate skin, always waking with an overwhelming scent of jasmine and honeysuckle on the tip of her tongue.

As she describes each of these seemingly imaginary worlds in loving detail, the Doctor can't help but feel like he's heard this all before, _lived_ this all before. And then it clicks: she's describing places he has _been to_ , places that do, in fact, exist within their universe, and she's remembering them all as though she's been there several times before.

"Oh, that sounds like one of the moons of Wisteria," he muses. "I'll take you there some time." 

The Doctor starts to wonder if, perhaps, she's some kind of psychic, or if she has some kind of special connection to the universe where her consciousness can travel while she sleeps. Either way, he reasons, Amelia Pond is not like other normal humans, and he's determined to find out _why_.

 

**• • •**

 

One afternoon, amidst long-forgotten matches of checkers and cards, half-drained mugs of hot cocoa, and stacks of dog-eared, coffee-stained hardcovers that have long since lost their jackets, the Doctor asks her if she's ever had a dream about the Singing Towers. A glorious smile spreads across his face as Amelia frowns in confusion, and admits that she has never even heard of them, that he has finally managed to surprise her.

"Tomorrow, then. It's a date," the Doctor promises, the tips of his ears burning scarlet as Amelia flashes him a magnificent smile and says, "I'd love that. Thank you, sweetie," before sipping the last of her cocoa and burying her nose in her book once more. The Doctor chuckles, sinking down in his plushy armchair and pretending to scan the passage of the book he's been holding (upside down) all the while keeping his eyes trained on Amy. 

_Sweetie_ , she'd called him. The endearment startles him, though he can't quite place _why_. It's…vaguely familiar. Eventually, he flips his chosen novel right side up, and shrugs it off as a combination of excitement and nerves. After all, this is the first adventure they'll be embarking on since Amelia mysteriously ended her engagement with Rory a few weeks back. He's been trying to give her all the space she needs until she's ready to talk about it, giving her full reign of the library and an endless supply of peace and quiet, _especially_ whenever he finds himself in her company. Which is a lot. Because, old sentimental fool that he is, he just can't seem to keep away from her.

Though _perhaps_ , a nagging voice at the back of his mind reasons, this carefully calculated silence between them is due in no small part to the fact that _he_ is the one who's not quite ready to talk about it. Before, it was all too easy to pretend that the reason Amelia makes him so nervous is because she's spoken for, and that the Doctor, hyper aware of every covert smile, lingering stare, and accidental brush of skin against skin shared between them, is simply trying to respect her boundaries and not muck it all up like he's now done for countless companions and their significant others. 

After all, Rory's a good bloke, and Amy deserves to be happy, and up until a couple of weeks ago, he had _thought_ that Amy was happy enough with him. In all his infinite wisdom, the Doctor simply cannot reason out _why_ she would have chosen to end things. He tries, desperately, not to let his mind wander into dangerous territory, not to dream up all manner of impossible, overly optimistic notions, lest he get his hopes up and fracture both his hearts all in one go.

A set of curious hazel eyes rove up from the gilded golden page set in front of them, faster than he can look away and feign interest in a fixed point beyond her head. He can tell by the crinkle in the corners of her eyes and the subtle curve of her lips that he's been caught staring for far too long. He waits for the inevitable bout of nerve-addled adrenaline and embarrassment to engulf him, but it never does. Instead, he's overcome with an overwhelming urge to tickle Amy senseless, and the sound of her laughter warms him up better than the best cocoa in the galaxy ever could.

 

**• • •**

 

As they gaze upon the timeless sunset on Darillium, its monumental towers alight in a golden glow, Amelia finally tells him the reason she'd chosen to end her engagement all those weeks ago, confessing that she couldn't possibly carry on a relationship with Rory when she's so very clearly in love with someone else. 

The Doctor stares down at her, lips parted in equal measures of awe and disbelief, hearts crashing against his ribcage like ocean waves in the midst of a storm. In that moment, he is positively dumbstruck by the way the sunset dances in her eyes, lighting them up like they're made of crystallized honey, enchanted by the way her hair cascades across her shoulders like a river of fire, like the skies of Gallifrey, like everything he's ever called home. 

It takes him a fraction of a second longer to register the gravity of what she's just said, and then finally, after all this time, he kisses her. And as the sun dips below the horizon and stars blossom across the night sky, the towers begin their serenade.

 

**• • •**

 

It's all a little _too_ perfect. Wild adventures by day, curled up in the library with a good book and a strong cup of tea by night. It's brilliant, and it's blissful, and the Doctor knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that he's found his best friend and lifelong companion in the heart and mind of mad, impossible Amy Pond. 

And that's exactly why he's absolutely _terrified._

In those serene stolen moments, in between crashes and explosions and chaos and reckless vigilantism, it's as though time itself stops just for them; frozen, suspended, a spectrum of infinite potential. 

The Doctor has chosen to spend those little pockets of time reading his favorite childhood bedtime stories to her aloud, and as her eyes flutter closed and her head dips down to rest in the curve of his shoulder, the gingerbread tangles of her hair sprawled across his chest like a fragrant floral meadow caught in a wildfire, Amelia Pond becomes far too sleepy to catch the off-key break in the soft lilt of his dulcet voice as he lulls her into a blissful slumber, nor the subtle gasp that hitches in the back of his throat as the Doctor swallows back a strangled sob, nose buried into the depths of her auburn hair, breathing her in and burning every facet of her into his memory, tears brimming in the corners of his eyes as he tries his damnedest not to wonder if _this_ will be the very last time he ever gets to hold her close.

Because it's there, in those rare, quiet moments, that the Doctor lets his mind wander into all manner of treacherous territory. Overthinking, over-simplifying, over-analyzing every little detail, worrying himself to the point of madness over a series of catastrophic events that haven't even occurred yet, instead of simply letting himself live in the moment, and enjoying this for what it is, for however long it's allowed to last. Because this, them, _her…_ it has an expiration date. It's a ticking time bomb of predetermined pain and suffering, and the Doctor is _all too aware_ of that horrible fact.

He can run from his home. He can run from his past. He can take her by the hand and together, they can _run_ to the farthest reaches of the cosmos, from the creation of the universe to the end of time itself, until all the stars and their moons have all been blown out and all that's left is darkness, but they can't run from _this_. He can save billions of planets and civilizations from turmoil and extinction, but he can't save _her_ from _this_. It doesn't matter what he does. It doesn't matter how clever he is. The Doctor cannot save Amelia Pond from the inevitability of her own biology.

He's a Time Lord. She's a human. He can regenerate, live out a dozen different lifetimes and circumvent almost any cause of death. But she's only got the one, and it's devastatingly finite. Every second spent in his company shifts the sands to the bottom of the hourglass. And he knows, no matter what he does, that one day, one way or another, Amelia Pond is going to leave him. Either she'll tire of a life of nonstop running with her lost-and-found imaginary friend, or else she'll stay with him, locked inside her very own ephemeral forever, until her very last breath, until he's forced to watch the woman he loves die. That's the trouble with humans and their fragile, fleeting lifespans. In the end, they _always_ leave him, and he's not entirely certain which scenario would hurt worse. Either way, the Doctor knows _exactly_ how this will end.

Because she's a human, and he's a Time Lord.

He is 907 years old, 

and 

_this_

_can't_

_ever_

_work._

It's selfish, what he's done. Asking her to stay. Asking her to come away with him and spend the rest of her days on the run. A life of constant danger. Constant peril. Constant stress and worry and fear. And for _what_ , the love of a reckless, broken man? Amelia Pond is worthy of _so much more_.

He hides the lie behind a bittersweet smile as he sets the coordinates for the big, empty house that used to be Amelia's childhood home back in Leadworth. For her, it's just another adventure. For him, it's goodbye.

 

**• • •**

 

Amelia steps out of the TARDIS and onto a familiar patch of rainsoaked grass, a flurry of emotions flashing across her eyes as she whips back around to face him, panic and confusion giving way to anguish and disbelief. Fire dances in her irises, at war with the soft silver glow of the crescent moon overhead. 

Before he can stop himself, before he can turn around and change his mind, all manner of stupid, useless excuses come tumbling out of his mouth in a rush to commit to a decision he despises. 

_He's doing this for her own good._

_He's trying to save her from an early grave._

_He's trying to set her free._

_This is him doing the right thing._

_Being respectful._

_Being responsible._

_Being selfless._

But then she speaks, her voice as eerily calm as the eye of an ocean storm, and the Doctor feels his resolve unravel.

"No," she muses, a curious lilt to her voice, head tilted to the side as she appraises him in that uncomfortable way that makes him feel exposed, like he's been thrust under a microscope and is being picked apart, before fixing him with a look that's equal parts disappointment and pity, and honestly, he'd rather she just scream at him. "You're only trying to save yourself."

He opens his mouth, ready at the defensive to argue back with her and _insist_ that this is all for her, but Amelia cuts him off with a warning glare.

"If you don't want to be with me anymore, that's fine. I'll accept that," she says, hastily brushing back a rogue tear that spills down the side of her face as the Doctor vehemently shakes his head.

"But don't you _dare_ try to decide what _you_ think is best for me," she scowls, and the venom that laces her words is strong enough to sting him. "I made my choice a long time ago, raggedy man. Long before prisoner zero ever escaped my spare room. Well before we freed an imprisoned star whale from Starship UK. _Years_ before that night I spent wandering the maze of the dead with only your voice at the end of a comm. link to guide me through the dark, truly believing that at any moment, I could die at the hands of an angel. And what I decided I _want_ , time and time again, is a life spent with _you_."

The Doctor's eyes widen, breath catching in the back of his throat as the weight of her revelation overwhelms him.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice coming out in a strangled whisper as he drops to his knees in the muddy grass and wraps his arms around her waist, face buried into the fabric of her bright red sweater. "I'm just so afraid of losing you."

He feels her torso vibrate with a soft, slow chuckle as all of the muscles in her stomach unclench beneath his touch, his vulnerability all the reassurance she needs.

"Then don't let me go," she says, sending shivers down the length of his spine as she runs her hands through the tendrils of his tousled dark brown hair.

"Never again," he breathes, hoisting himself back up onto his feet and wrapping his arms around her, before placing a soft, sweet kiss to the top of her forehead. "I promise."

 

**• • •**

 

Hours later, the Doctor lies awake in Amelia's springy twin sized bed, transfixed by the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she lies beside him, hair like a summer sunset spilling across the sheets in wild tangles, perfect blush rose lips parted like she'd fallen asleep telling him a story. He preoccupies the long, weary, twilit hours tracing constellations in the smattering of freckles that dapple the bridge of her nose, until it starts to remind him of cinnamon and honey, and he realizes, with an unfamiliar pang in the pit of his stomach, that he's hungry. 

Figuring he'll try his hand at cooking the two of them breakfast and surprise her before she wakes up, the Doctor wanders off downstairs in the direction of Amelia's kitchen. Arms laden with half a brick of cheddar cheese, two sticks of butter, a quarter loaf of bread, cinnamon, honey, jam, and half a dozen eggs, Doctor Gastronomy sets to work. He's just spooning the last of the blackberry jam onto a freshly toasted piece of sourdough, when he realizes he hasn't actually got any plates out to put the food on. 

The Doctor opens cabinet after cabinet, but can't seem to find anything other than bowls and glassware. His hands flail helplessly as he tries to reach the topmost cabinets standing on the edge of his toes, until eventually, he's forced to concede and drag a chair over. The Doctor winces as a stack of gorgeous, never-before-used china plates comes crashing down all around him in a flurry of cobalt blue and crisp white. Cursing under his breath, the Doctor sets about picking up the broken shards of porcelain and dumping them unceremoniously into the bin, hoping like hell he hadn't just utterly demolished a family heirloom.

He's about to cut his losses and serve breakfast directly out of the frying pan, when a glint of metal catches his eye. In one of the corners of the kitchen lies a small wooden box that must have fallen out of the cabinet in the crash. The box itself is nothing special; no discernable markings, no bigger than a jewelry box, with a simple metal clasp, and a thick layer of dust obscuring its polished walnut surface. Gingerly, as though afraid he's going to break this, too, the Doctor opens the lid. 

Inside, hugged by layers of crimson silk, sits a little rose gold pocketwatch. Normally, a trinket like this wouldn't be of any more interest to the Doctor than an antique tea set, but there's something about this watch that piques his curiosity. Carefully, he picks it up and turns it over in the palm of his hand, and his mouth drops open. Engraved on the front latch of the pocketwatch is a series of intricate circles and geometric curves, almost like it's written in—

The Doctor's hearts jump into his throat. Breakfast all but forgotten, he races through the living room, barrels up the stairs, and bursts into Amelia's bedroom, barely able to contain his excitement. In his haste, he jumps up and throws himself full body onto the bed, and the resounding force of the bounce sends Amy flying off the side and onto the floor. She wakes with a muffled scream as a mountain of bedding topples over onto her head, and the Doctor is greeted with an angry scowl amidst a sea of tousled ginger tresses as she emerges from her impromptu blanket fort.

"I was going to make you breakfast in bed, but—" The Doctor begins in lieu of an apology.

"But you decided scaring me half to death was the better option?" Amy teases with a playful roll of her eyes as she starts piling pillows, blankets, and sheets back onto the mattress.

"But I couldn't find any plates, so I was rummaging about in the top of your kitchen cabinets and there was…well, there was a bit of an accident," The Doctor admits around a guilty grimace.

"What _kind_ of accident?" Amy asks suspiciously, narrowing her eyes.

"Let's just say I owe you a new set of plates," he concedes with a casual, dismissive wave of his hand. "But that's not the important part. While I was down there, I found _this_."

The Doctor cradles the little golden pocketwatch in the palms of his hands as though it's a hatching robin's egg. Amy abandons the impossible task of trying to fold a fitted sheet and drops down onto the bed beside him, scooting closer and peering over his shoulder so she can get a better look.

"It's…a watch," she says, disappointment evident in her tone. Amelia quirks an eyebrow at the Doctor, giving him a look of polite frustration as his lips twitch and his smile fades.

"I mean, it's _lovely_ ," she amends, trying to appeal to the Doctor's sudden, random attachment to the dusty old thing. "And I suppose it's got _some_ sentimental value, being a Pond family heirloom and all…or it _would_ , if I had any idea _who_ in my family it belonged to. Might've been my nan's or my granddad's, but I don't remember if I ever actually met them. The point is, Doctor, it's just…well, realistically, after all of the amazing things you've shown me, an old antique watch you found stashed away in my house is a bit…anti-climactic, you know?"

The Doctor purses his lips into a hard, thin line, a frustrated crease set into his forehead as his eyes bore into hers, willing her to understand.

"What if it's not _just_ a watch?" he asks softly.

Amelia opens her mouth to respond, but the Doctor is far too impatient to wait for her to arrive at the same conclusion he'd just jumped to. He flips the fobwatch over onto its front, fingertips grazing the grooved spirals of its intricate engravings.

"These symbols etched into the latch there…what do they look like?" he prompts eagerly. Amy's eyes narrow in concentration as they flit across the surface of the watch.

"Well, they… _oh_ ," she gasps softly, eyes widening in surprise. "They sort of look like Time Lord language, don't they?"

"Circular Gallifreyan, yes," he supplies, his tone rather tetchy in his impatience. "I tried to show you how to write it that one time, do you remember? You got the hang of it rather quickly. Perhaps _that_ should have been my first clue."

"Well, I'd imagine as long as you've got a steady hand and are decently good at drawing geometric shapes, _anyone_ could—" Amy reasons.

"No, don't be humble," the Doctor admonishes. "It's actually a fairly complicated language to master. Now, the question is, can you read them? Do you have any idea what they say?"

He asks, in part, because he knows what a delicate process this can be. He can't just come right out and say it. He needs to let her work it out on her own. Come to the same conclusion that he had done _on her own_. Because ultimately, the choice to open the fobwatch and reveal the contents within needs to be _hers_ and hers _alone_. 

It's difficult, in this moment, not to let his impatience over the fact that she's just _not getting it_ overwhelm him, to not let it bleed into their conversation. More frustrating still, and admittedly an ulterior motive for asking her if she can read the engravings, is because, for some strange reason, the Doctor just can't seem to work out exactly what these particular symbols mean. It's a name he's never heard of before, one he's embarrassed to admit he can't pronounce, its letters adorned with their own unique flourishes and flair that make them all but illegible. It bothers him far more than it should, but he knows that making _that_ his primary focus in such an emotionally charged moment is selfish. 

So, with a heavy sigh, the Doctor stows his tarnished pride and focuses his attention on Amy, watching her closely, breath held aloft as he waits for the moment it finally _clicks_ and she realizes there's more to her very existence than either of them ever thought possible. The Doctor places the pocketwatch as delicately as he possibly can into Amy's outstretched palms, watches as she studies its intricately carved patterns through narrowed eyes, fingertips gliding over its curves and crevices.

There's a soft, sudden intake of breath, and Amelia's eyes become unfocused, pupils blown wide, like she's in some kind of trance, like she's trying to remember something she forgot a very long time ago. Though her body sits beside him, breathing hitched, heart rate rioting inside her chest, her mind is a million miles away. A brief flicker of something akin to recognition flashes across her eyes, and the Doctor could _swear_ he'd seen a glimmer of brightest gold dance across her irises, like an exploding star, like a burst of regeneration energy.

But then it fades as quickly as it had come, hazel closing in around a pool of black, and she shakes her head as if to clear it.

"Of course not. I'm not a Time Lord, am I?" she says, her smile bittersweet, almost apologetic. "But by all means, if you like the watch so much, you're more than welcome to keep it."

The Doctor quirks an eyebrow, all set to ask her what's got her so melancholy, when realization hits him like a punch to the chest, and he curses himself for his blatant lack of tact and sensitivity. They'd only just made up from an argument about this incredibly delicate topic last night, and now she's got it in her head that her being human isn't good enough for him. The Doctor vows to make it up to her, to prove to her how very wrong she is. As he slips Amelia's fobwatch into the breast pocket of his tweed jacket, he wonders, idly, how difficult it would be to steal a kyber crystal from one of the arctic caves of Ilum, and fashion it into a ring.

 

**• • •**

 

The first time they get married, it's completely by accident. Not altogether fluent in the language of the ancient Aurelians, the Doctor accidentally mistakes the word for _marriage_ with the word for _friendship_. Only when a gaggle of giggling locals guides Amelia out from beyond a wall of fragrant floral climbing vines, swathed in a dress of champagne silk, a crown comprised of Amaryllian lilies, Fleurian fire opals, and Ilopaivan sun stones woven into the soft curls of her hair, does the Doctor begin to understand what all the fuss is about. With a sheepish smile in response to Amy's wide eyes and amused shrug, he stows the ring he'd planned on giving her back into his pocket, and decides to just _go with it_ , promising himself he'll do the thing properly after they've said their vows.

He makes a fool of himself proposing to her under the Darillium sunset in the shadows of the Singing Towers, where they'd shared their first kiss. Amy can't stop laughing as he trips over himself and the ring goes flying over the side of a bridge, dropping with a resounding _thwack_ into the riptide river below. She takes him by the hand, stands up on the edge of her toes, and places a soft, sweet kiss to the top of his forehead.

"Technically, we're already married," she says as she brushes his hair back from out of his eyes, the palm of her hand sweeping downward to gently cradle the side of his face. Her lips curve into a magnificent smile as the warmth of the sunset dances across her irises, a mirror memory of the last time they were here, so many years ago. "But I'll marry you as many times as you ask me."

So he keeps asking her, and they keep getting married, over and over again in a multitude of different ceremonies, on a plethora of different planets across the universe. In the lush floral gardens of Andromeda, and the tisane mint meadows of Camellia. Under the vivid violet sunrise of Cassis and Iola, and the golden sunset of Cressida. Atop the tallest towers twisted with ivy on the vine planet Ivelisse, and all eleven moons orbiting Ambrosia, as well as the paradise planet itself. On Minerva, the realm of eternal autumn, and the frostbitten winter world of Eira. On the dragon homeworld of Tarragon, and the Watercress moons of Celadon, home to a species of aquatic half-human sirens.

He takes her to all of the places she swears she's only ever seen in her dreams, and marries her for what must be the hundredth time on the meadow moon of Wisteria under the glow of the bioluminescent flora and the citrine and silver moon, and then again at the bottom of the Cerulean ocean on one of the crystal cave moons orbiting Sapphire, before they're serenaded by the tangible symphonies that burst across the skies of Cadenza. As they speak the last of their vows on the forest realm of Memorum, the ground begins to quake, and a brand new seedling hatches from the earth, taking root and winding its way toward the heavens, twisting and curving into a perfect portrait of their ceremony, forever sealing their wedding into the planet's history.

After a while, they start to lose count, but the Doctor never grows tired of promising his life to her, never grows tired of running with her.

 

**• • •**

 

Still, the enigma surrounding that damnable fobwatch entices him, and he finds himself pondering the mystery of Amelia's missing memories. Every once in a while, she'll say or do something that doesn't quite make sense, and he'll take the watch from out of his pocket and run his fingers over it, wondering.

One day, as he's plugging in the coordinates to pay a quick visit to Bohemian Paris, the Doctor becomes distracted by a frayed bit of wiring on the floor below, and briefly loses control of the steering, the force of which sends him flying into the wall behind him. Led as if by instinct, Amy takes control of the console, and lands the TARDIS with more precision than he'd ever thought possible.

The Doctor stares up at her, positively dumbfounded, which prompts Amy to check his head for possible injuries. 

Incredulous, he asks, "How did you know how to do that?"

"I…" she falters, lips twisted into a frown, head tilted to the side in confusion. "I don't know, I just… _knew_."

He's not entirely certain which troubles him more: the fact that she could fly his TARDIS with no prior experience whatsoever, or the realization that he'd never taken the time to show her _how_. It's enough to get the cogs inside his head turning, and before he can stop himself, he starts to imagine all manner of fantastic, impossible theories and _what ifs_ , all the while trying not to get his hopes up too high. In the end, he always chalks it up to wishful thinking. 

After all, that would be an all-too-perfect faerie tale happy ending, wouldn't it? Imagine if the woman he fell in love with, the woman who jumpstarts an all-consuming fear running on a constant loop at the back of mind at the thought of someday losing her, the woman he almost let go in a misguided attempt to save himself from future heartbreak, the woman he'd _thought_ was human all this time, is actually a Time Lord, and can, potentially, live for as long as he can.

What are the odds that the one person he chose to travel with, chose to spend his _life_ with, is actually just like him? Nearly infinite lifespan, Time Lord DNA tucked away inside of a rose gold fobwatch with an engraved name he can't seem to decipher, just waiting to be reactivated? Next to nothing. Zero. Far too good to be true.

And yet…and _yet_ , it's the only explanation that makes any kind of sense, the last missing puzzle piece that connects the mystery of her missing memories with all of the otherworldly intrinsic knowledge she seems to possess. What if the reason she knows how to pilot the TARDIS is because she used to have one of her very own? What if the reason she keeps dreaming of all of these beautiful, breathtaking places is because she's been to them all before? What if the reason certain alien customs and cultures are like second nature to her is because she'd already learned them, and the reason no one seems to recognize her is because when last she visited, she wore a different face?

Because she _must_ have had a different face before this one, a different life before Leadworth. She'd spent her entire adolescence growing up there, after all. The very first time he'd ever met her, she'd been a little girl, no more than seven years old. What if, all this time, she'd grown up thinking she was human, spent all this time _being_ human? All her life, all she's ever known is _this_. Human. Leadworth. Amelia Pond. What happens, then, if she opens that watch, and becomes the person who knows how to pilot a time machine, speak the local language of an alien planet, and swim to the depths of the ocean on a distant crystal moon? 

She could become a different person _entirely_. The idea is both exhilarating and panic-inducing. Who was she, before she lost all of her memories and believed the lie of the ticking fobwatch that rewrote her biology and made her mortal? Perhaps she was a veteran of the Last Great Time War who managed to escape before the Daleks destroyed her home, an old soul with a completely different personality and set of experiences and beliefs. Or perhaps she was only a child when the war broke out, and was sent off to earth in a cryo-sleep chamber clutching her fobwatch in her tiny humanoid hands. Perhaps she was brand new, and the personality that she has now is her true one. 

She could be _anyone_. But _who_ is she, underneath the mask that is Amy Pond? _Mad, impossible Amy Pond. Amelia, like a name in a faerie tale_. _His_ _Amelia_. He's equal parts terrified and thrilled to find out, but he knows that he _has_ to, knows it would be beyond selfish to keep this massive, life-altering secret from her, on the off chance that Time Lord Amy Pond doesn't love him in the same way that human Amelia does now. But he _also_ knows that he can't try to force this, that doing so would just make her feel inadequate, and question whether his love for her is conditional. So he makes a habit of leaving the watch out for her to come across, to pick up and play with if she so desires, to decide if she wants to open it all on her own. 

He leaves it out on the edge of coffee tables in the heart of the TARDIS library, pretending it was merely a mistake of having checked the time in a haze of sleepiness before shuffling off to bed, leaving her to sit there in a quiet, contemplative silence, feigning interest in the last chapter of the book she'd been reading, all the while peering over the edge of its pages and watching, mesmerized, as the lights dance across its rose gold surface. Delights in the way her eyes repeatedly flash toward the little trinket as he sets it beside his morning tea in the cozy little breakfast alcove the TARDIS had materialized for them as a wedding present. Purposely leaves it on the bathroom sink after his evening showers whenever he knows she's about to go in after him to brush her teeth.

And every time she picks it up, which is _every single time_ he leaves it out for her to find, she always has that same curious reaction she did the first time. She'll stiffen as though she's frozen, heart and mind racing, brows furrowed in concentration like she's listening for the whispers of a long-forgotten secret, lips pursed in a frustrated frown like this little watch is a puzzle she can't quite solve, eyes wide with a golden glow that seems to light them up from within, a flicker of recognition, of realization, and then… _nothing_. She shakes her head as if to clear it, and then immediately resumes whatever she had been doing before, dropping the watch off in the palms of his hands, and scolding him for not keeping a better eye on her family heirloom.

 

**• • •**

 

And then, one day, one fateful adventure, the moment the Doctor has been dreading comes to pass. Storming the treacherous perennial swamplands of Malachite, home to a species of bellicose, war-savvy creatures who clearly have it out for any brand of passing traveller, Amelia gets hit with a poisonous dart to which there is no cure. It barely misses her throat as it lodges itself into the curve of her collarbones, and she immediately topples to the ground. The poison spreads in vivid shades of violet as it burns its way through her veins, blossoming across her skin like strikes of lighting.

Adrenaline takes over and somehow, miraculously, allows the Doctor to carry her back to the TARDIS without inviting any more malicious attacks. He plunges them into the vortex and sets the controls to idle, before immediately running back to her side. Gently cradling her in the crook of his arm, head propped up against his chest as they sprawl across the floor of the console room, the Doctor scans the length of her with his sonic screwdriver, mentally scrolling through a rolodex of potential cures. He checks, and double checks, and triple checks, screams himself hoarse for the TARDIS to _please find a way to save her_ , but there's nothing to be done. The creatures of Malachite concoct their poisons _well_. He is helpless to save her, just as he'd always feared. 

The Doctor watches through a blur of tears that cascade down his cheeks as Amelia's life begins to fade away before his eyes. He hugs her to his chest, face buried into the depths of her hair, begging the universe for a way to save her. As though the cosmos themselves had heard his call, a little rose gold fobwatch tumbles out of the breast pocket of his tweed jacket and onto the glass floor. Hands shaking, he slowly picks it up and turns it over in his hand.

_It's now or never,_ he muses. If this works, she'll become someone else entirely, someone who might not still love him for who he is, or even want anything to do with him anymore. Someone who might not have _wanted_ to be found, to be saved from a normal, human death. But that's all just speculation and fear of the unknown talking. He has to at least _try_ , regardless of the potential repercussions. He _has_ to do whatever he can to save her. No more waiting around for her to stumble across the secrets contained within the watch on her own. This is a matter of life or death. 

Placing a gentle kiss to the top of her forehead, the Doctor calls her name, and breathes a sigh of relief when she stirs, eyelids fluttering open. 

"Amy," he breathes, pressing the watch firmly into the palms of her hands. "Open it."

To his great surprise, she manages a weak scowl. Perhaps if he was less panicked, he would have laughed.

"How in the _bloody hell_ is a stupid watch supposed to save me?" she manages through a succession of violent coughing and spluttering. "I'm going to _die_. Will you please just hold me?"

The Doctor winces, trembling as a fresh wave of tears spills down his cheeks.

"Amelia," he begs through a strangled whisper. "Please, just _trust_ me."

Her features soften as she takes in the sight of the broken man suspended above her. With an agonized sigh and a muted moan, she grasps the little golden watch between her fingertips, clasps the release, and opens the latch. 

A stream of blinding white and shimmering gold flows from out of the center of the fobwatch, encircling the both of them until the entire console room is lit up like the inside of a thousand burning stars. It engulfs her, consumes her, and the Doctor has no choice but to let go of her as her transformation into a completely different person begins. 

He gives a shaky laugh of pure relief, blissful over the mere fact that it had _worked_ , that he had been _right_ , that Amelia Pond is _saved_ , damn whatever consequences may come to follow. As the golden light fades until it's nothing but a soft, pulsing glow in the palms of her hands, the Doctor looks upon the brand new person that she has become, and smiles. Cascade of fiery red hair and freckles gone, replaced with honey blonde ringlets that spill across her shoulders. Eyes the color of a meadow moon lock onto his, an all-too-familiar smirk tugging at the corners of her lips as she rises to meet him.

"Hello, sweetie," she says, before she's swept up into the Doctor's arms.


End file.
